


I'm Asking For Your Help, I Am Going Through Hell

by nothinglasts222



Category: Adam Levine (Musician), Blake Shelton (Musician), Shevine - Fandom, The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, F/M, Fanfiction, M/M, OTP Feels, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers, happy-ish ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-11-06 12:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11036514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothinglasts222/pseuds/nothinglasts222
Summary: I've been working on this story for what seems like forever. I started it when I was in a dark place and it's really sad and messed up but I encourage you to read it anyway. I have quite a bit more written but I thought I'd go ahead and give you some of it because who knows when I'll actually finish it.Also, it's a follow up to Go Ahead And Break My Heart. You don't have to read that one first, but it will give you a little background.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this story for what seems like forever. I started it when I was in a dark place and it's really sad and messed up but I encourage you to read it anyway. I have quite a bit more written but I thought I'd go ahead and give you some of it because who knows when I'll actually finish it.
> 
> Also, it's a follow up to Go Ahead And Break My Heart. You don't have to read that one first, but it will give you a little background.

" _Adam_?"

Adam shifts his gaze from the window to the man sitting behind the desk in front of him.

He blinks. "What?"

The man leans back in his big chair and takes off his glasses, sighing. "If you don't talk to me you know I can't help you."

That is precisely the problem. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. He didn't want to talk to anyone when Jesse suggested it nearly three weeks ago. Yet here he is, sitting in the spacious twenty-fifth story corner office of one of the top psychologists in all of southern California, one known for successfully treating celebrities while keeping it all off the radar. But that part he isn't worried about. What concerns him is that he's in a shitty enough place in life to warrant the use of professional advice.

His eyes wander back to the window, and he suddenly is overwhelmed with anxiety and claustrophobia. "I'm sorry, but I just can't do this right now." He pushes his chair back and bolts for the door. He takes the stairs, jogging down them, and is winded by the time he reaches ground level. He glances behind him, half expecting to see doctor whatever-his-name is following him. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and puts on a pair of sunglasses, ducking his way through crowds of people lining the streets on this dreary Friday Los Angeles afternoon.

He finds his sports car in the garage where he parked it half an hour earlier, and speeds away from downtown. Out on the freeway he contemplates doing something, anything, besides going home, but minutes later he finds himself driving through his gate and staring up at his lonely mansion. It's for the best, he tells himself. He needs to prepare himself alone, mentally, for the second to last live show on Monday.

A glance at his phone shows that he has a text from Jesse, asking how the appointment went. Jesus, why the fuck does he care so much? He has no idea what Adam has been going through, and one meeting with a shrink isn't going to fix any of it.

Still, he has to give his friend credit for trying, which is more than he can say for some people in his life lately. The past few weeks have felt like a roller coaster that he can't get off of, no matter how much he's tried to bail. It's like he's been watching his life flash before his eyes but isn't able to participate in it, while everyone around him gets to go on with theirs like not a single damn thing has changed. Maybe taking some time to himself and getting in the right mindset for the playoffs will help bring him back to ground zero. He sure as hell hopes it does.

***

"Ready for this, buddy?"

Adam sucks in a shaky breath and picks at his blue striped tie for the umpteenth time in the last few minutes. 

He answers, "Not a bit."

Blake claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently. This _should_ be the best day of Adam's life. He finally gets a chance to sing with Blake, a duet all to themselves, and thoughts of his best friend and new fiancé are intertwined throughout his head, preventing him from concentrating on anything else worth his while.

Blake walks away and Adam is left alone with those thoughts. He starts to panic a little, that all too familiar feeling welling up inside his chest. The one that prompted Jesse to suggest therapy in the first place.

"Ready Adam?" One of the stage managers calls to him, and Adam snaps to and nods. He meets Blake at the back entrance where they'll walk out on that stage, stand side by side, lips pressed up against microphones, harmonizing, a perfect blend of country and rock. Blake looks strikingly handsome in his brown suit and cowboy boots, his hair gelled back just the right amount. Adam hears Carson introduce them, the audience roars, and then they're out there for the world to see. They're the final act of the night. 

He thought this would be the most difficult thing to do at a time like this, but as soon as the first words leave Blake's lips all his worries melt away. It's like magic. An indescribable feeling that he wants to hold onto forever. He watches those lips in awe, then aware that he's been staring and knows a camera or two caught it, turns his attention back to the audience.

It's his turn now, and he sings the second part of the first verse, and when the chorus comes he and Blake sing it together. Adam glances at Blake, a big smile spreading across the country singer's as he looks back at Adam, and Adam blushes so hard he almost forgets the words. Every time thereafter that he looks at Blake, his heart beats a little faster. This is it, right here, doing what he loves most, with his best friend.

 _The love of his life_.

They finish the song and the crowd goes absolutely insane, the sound deafening. Carson says something about the performance but Adam doesn't catch it, because Blake is still smiling at him, Adam's heart is still racing and he feels like he's on top of the goddamn world. Blake steps up to him and wraps him in one of his bear hugs, and it takes all Adam's got not to cry into his suit jacket. Adam squeezes him tight and Blake says, "Love you, buddy."

They'll be news tomorrow, for sure.

"Love you too," Adam answers, and the words hurt escaping his throat because they're just _so true_.

Backstage their fellow team members congratulate them on a job well done. Hoards of people are gathered around Adam, but he peers past heads and shoulders to look for Blake. It doesn't take long to spot him, a corn stalk in a bean field, laughing along with his remaining artist.  

Then she comes walking into the room, long red dress flowing behind her, hair done up in a perfect blonde twist, lips turned up at the corners in a bright smile. Adam watches her eyes land on Blake almost instantly, and as if on cue Blake picks her out in the crowd and waves her over. Blake wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her forehead gently, while she tilts her head back to smile up at him.  

"Fantastic job out there." 

It takes Adam a second to register the familiar voice congratulating him. 

"Thanks, Pharrell." Adam smiles as Pharrell shakes his hand. He moves on to Blake next, but seeing him and Gwen wrapped up in each other, continues on his way. Adam scours, half wishing that someone would walk over there and physically pry them apart. 

Adam picks an empty wall to lean against, watching mindlessly as the various stage workers make their way around the set and the majority of the people clear out. He's picking at a loose thread on his pants leg when Blake walks up to him.

"Best night ever, huh?" Blake is beaming. The stage lights have helped form a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead. He still looks devilishly handsome. 

"Pretty amazing, "Adam smiles. "Everyone got to see that I'm the better vocalist."

Blake smiles too, but it's strained. "Adam I've got somethin' I've been meanin' to tell ya." He sticks his hands in his pockets. 

Adam raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

A pause, a breath, then, "I'm quittin' the show."

"What? What do you mean you're _quitting_?" Adam remembers the promise they made to each other, the one where they wouldn't leave the show without the other. Did Blake not remember that?

"Gwen and I are movin'. To Oklahoma."

The words hit Adam like a tidal wave. He feels his whole body collapse, like his insides are falling out of him, each organ pressing down on another. The pressure is so intense that for a few seconds he can't breathe. 

" _What_?" He knows he says the words but doesn't remember saying them.

"In two weeks. We've already found a house. and it'll be a nice place to have the wedding. My mom's been wanting me to move back permanently for years now, and Gwen is excited as hell to start a new life."

Now all the blood is draining from Adam, seeping somewhere but he doesn't know where, all the life being sucked out of him, he can physically feel it. His stomach churns so much it hurts, stabbing at him from the inside out. He's unsure of whether his heart is still beating. Is this what it feels like to die?

Blake's hand on his shoulder is so warm that Adam melts beneath it. He's still alive.

"Hey, you okay?" Blake asks, concerned yet comforting.

Adam presses his back deeper into the wall. "It's just...so soon."

"Yeah I know. But we didn't want to waste any more time around here, you know? Best to get on with things."

 _Waste any more time around here_. Around Los Angeles. Around _Adam_.

Feeling starts to return to his body, his breathing regulates and he can feel his heart beating again, however erratic. "Congratulations," he manages.

Blake pats his shoulder. "I'm sorry for springing this on ya so quick, but I knew you'd understand. Life just changes sometimes, ya know?"

This isn't the Blake Adam knows and loves. No, this isn't the dirty-minded sarcastic asshole that stays true to his values and makes promises and honors them. 

He doesn't understand _any fucking bit_ of it.

Something inside of him snaps. He pushes Blake's hand away. Blake searches his face, his own twisted with hurt.

"I can't believe you, you fucking bastard!"

Blake's confusion at his outrage ticks Adam off even more. Because Blake doesn't _know_ , and he should know. He should know what he's done to Adam, the heartbreak he's caused him, the endless years of rejection and pain. But he doesn't know, and he never did, and he never will. 

Hot tears sting behind his eyelids. He hates his body for making him cry whenever he gets upset. He hates this stupid show for bringing them together in the first place. He hates _her_ , the bitch from hell that swept in and stole his best friend. But mostly he hates Blake, for making him believe that he had a fucking chance in the first place. He will _always_ hate him for that. 

But the excruciatingly painful part is, is that he will _always_ love him. And now he can _never_ have him. 

So maybe, then, he hates himself just as much. 

***

Back at home Adam pours himself a shot of Patrón, wrangles his tie off his neck and chucks it across the living room. It hits a wall with a soft thud. He falls backward onto a couch, spilling some of his drink in the process. Tilting the glass back, he drains it in one swift motion. 

He can't go on with the show without Blake. No fucking question about it. Just as he was really starting to get settled in, just as it was feeling more and more like how own home, he's ripped away and not even by his own choosing. But that's how it has to be, and he knows it. Without Blake, the show is now meaningless shitty work to him.

His stomach hurts. His head hurts. Every bone and muscle in his body hurts. 

His fucking heart hurts like hell.

He stormed out of the studio like a little kid in the heat of a temper tantrum. People stared, whispered, he knows it, and Blake tried to stop him, touched his arm a few times but Adam always pulled away and just walked faster, ignoring anyone or anything that got in his way. He was so far past fucking done that it even surprised him and he needed to get the hell away just to escape the feeling. 

Yet here he is, sitting alone in his big, dark, quiet house, and the suffocating feeling still lingers. He feels it whenever he thinks of Blake marrying someone other than himself. He feels it whenever he thinks of Blake moving 1000 miles away, which wouldn't be a problem because Adam's used to him splitting his time between Oklahoma and Los Angeles but this time it's for good, no late night visits, no quick flights back. Because now there's no reason for Blake to ever come back. He's done with the show, he's done with the city, and he's done with Adam. 

He knew they'd get on with their lives eventually. He just didn't expect it to happen so soon.

As he sits here, thinking, imagining, suffocating, there's something else he feels, something he can't quite describe. He feels blank. Hollow. Like he's being swallowed into nothingness. He lost himself somewhere along the way and now doesn't recognize the man sitting here on the couch, entertaining a third shot of tequila, suffocating. 

For a split second, he contemplates calling that therapist. But that thought vanishes just as quickly as it floated through his mind and he laughs to himself, he's such a fool. He downs another glass and throws it too. It shatters when it comes in contact with the TV screen, tiny glass particles spraying out in all directions. He watches in awe.

The next thing he knows he smashing a pillow against the back of the couch, hurling it time after time until his shoulder aches, then he stops, breathless, wondering what the hell came over him.

 _Pain_ , he realizes. It can make a person do crazy things.

He drags himself upstairs and into his bedroom. He strips down to nothing and walks into the adjoining bathroom. Flipping on the light switch, he studies himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot, puffy underneath, though he hasn't been crying. He could use a shave, and his skin is shiny with sweat. He ruffles his hair, freeing it from its gelled hold. 

He cuts his eyes to the counter at his fingertips. A razor is lying there, one he hasn't used in days but never bothered to put away. Its blades shine as the overhead light strikes them. Five of them. 

He picks it up, rolls it around in his fingers. Never did he think he'd ever be one to contemplate taking a blade to his own skin, but maybe, just maybe, it would take away some of the pain...

His left arm stings where the blades slice it. Adam watches the cut he made, watches it turn from a thin red line to a thick red snake, blood spreading out in all directions. A sense of guilt washes over him, and he's tempted to stash the razor away, clean himself up, and get some fucking help. But no one can help him. Because in order for them to help him they'd have to know the story. The one where he's in love with his male best friend and drowning in endless amounts of grief and desolation and resentment and envy and is tired of living with all the fucking pain that has invaded and consumed his already fucked up mind. 

_That story_.

Minutes pass, and now blood is dripping onto the counter, some drops make it to the floor. He cut deep, he must have. But not an artery, that would be too messy, too much. But this, this is interesting. Because for the first time in a long time, he can focus on taking away the pain by creating a different kind of pain. 

He brings the razor to life again, makes another cut, and then another, until both his forearms are laced with tiger claw marks, a sea of red spread over the precious array of black ink.


	2. Chapter 2

Adam lays in bed sipping on a glass of orange juice. He knows he lost a good amount of blood because he feels dizzy from it, and hopes that the sweet beverage will help calm his spinning head. He knows how to take care of himself. He knows exactly what his body needs. He's trying, he really is. He doesn't want to die. So he has to stop the pain.

His arms are wrapped up lazily in cheap towels. He peels a corner back to check the wounds; most of the bleeding has stopped, but there will be scars. And he'll have to live with them. Just like he has to live with the fact that Blake is marrying and moving, without him.

What a fucking beautiful metaphor.

It's nearly two in the morning and sense tells him that he needs to sleep in order to be up early and prepare for the finale. He almost forgot about all of that. It feels like a distant memory now.

In the morning, after a surprisingly sound sleep, he checks the cuts again. The blood dried overnight, and he has to tug the towel away slowly to prevent them from opening back up again. It hurts like a bitch, but he remembers how strangely good it felt last night. For once, he didn't think about Blake.

But today he'll face Blake, and Gwen, and all the other fuckers he'd rather not deal with but has too. He'll wear a suit, like usual, and no one will ask questions because they won't see. He'll celebrate and congratulate, then go home, drink some more, and wallow in self-pity.

His intuition was right. No one suspects a thing. Not even Blake, who claims to be his best friend. Not even he can tell how much Adam is hurting.

And if he does he doesn't show it. He pays little attention to Adam all night, tense-faced yet smiling whenever Gwen so much as glances his way. When Gwen's young pop singer claims the first place spot, Blake is the first on his feet, the first on stage to congratulate them both. He kisses her, strokes her hair, touches her right on the small of her back.

Blake always hugs Adam after the winner is announced. He doesn't tonight.

Adam hurries out without so much as a glance at his third place contestant. He's sure he'll get crap for that. But right now he doesn't give a flying fuck, because those terrible, God-forsaken thoughts and feelings are back and the last thing he can do is stand there fake-smiling at the two people who have taken away every last bit of his happiness.

Tonight his best friend and partner in crime is a tall cold Bud Light. Which is ironic, because he doesn't really even like beer. But Blake likes beer. And tonight, so does he.

Two bottles, three, four, five...after a while he loses count. He chases them down with a few shots of tequila, then curls up on the couch. He toes off his shoes and lays there, staring up the ceiling, watching it spin around in his vision. He blinks a few times but the world is still spinning, so he closes his eyes for good, trying to fight the nausea creeping into his stomach.

***

The sound doesn't even seem real. Is he dreaming? It comes again, louder, and it forces him awake. He sits up and rubs his eyes, then spotting a bottle of Grey Goose he left unopened on the coffee table, opens it and takes a sip.

The sound comes a final time, and he realizes it's someone knocking on his door. Which is absurd, because no one should be able to even get to his door. And no one in their right mind would want to come over at hell in the morning to see his mess of an existence.

He carries the bottle with him to answer it. Blake's tall figure looms in his vision.

Adam scrunches his nose. "The fuck? What are you doin' over here?"

Blake leans toward him and inhales. "Have you been drinking?"

Adam keeps the bottle hidden behind his back. "Hell no. Sober as you." He laughs, but even in his altered consciousness he can hear the slur in his words, feel how stickily they come across his tongue.

"Can I come in?" Blake asks.

Adam steps aside dramatically and Blake walks past him. He reaches behind Adam and snags the bottle, bringing it to his nose.

"That's some strong stuff."

"You drink it all the time."

"Well it's too much for you."

Adam takes it back from him and starts walking toward the living room, Blake on his heels. "For fucks sake, I'm fine. Jesus." He takes another swig from the bottle.

"Everyone's worried about you, Adam. You hurried outta there tonight like yer ass was on fire."

"Yeah, well, didn't feel like talking."

Blake shoves his hands in his pockets. "We missed you at the after party."

Adam snorts. "Like hell you did. I'm fine. _Really_."

"No, you're not."

Adam feels his balance waver, and he reaches out to Blake for support. Blake grabs his shoulder and gives him a shake. "C'mon man! Look at yerself!"

But Adam is quick to swat his hands away and musters the strength to stand on his own. "Don't touch me!" He shoves Blake and the larger man takes a step backward.

"Whatever it is, I want to help you. Drinking your life away ain't gonna solve yer problems."

"Seems like it solves all'a yours."

"This ain't about me. I care about you, man. I don't wanna see you get hurt."

The depths of hell rage within Adam. "You don't want to see me get hurt? Where the fuck have you been? You're the whole fucking reason!..."

"Reason for what?" Blake asks patiently.

Adam balls a fist and punches the couch. He takes his eyes off Blake. "Just get out."

"Please talk to me."

"I said, get out!" He picks up one of the bottles and throws it at Blake, hitting him square on the chest. Must've hurt like a bitch.

 _Good_.

Blake rubs at the spot. "Goddamn, Adam..."

"Just get the fuck out, alright!" He spits.

A good friend would have stayed. But Blake left. He looked at Adam once more, pity and worry in those baby blues, before letting himself out.

Sleep isn't on Adam's side when he curls back up on the sofa and tries to rest his eyes for a bit. His stomach keeps him awake and this time rushing to the bathroom. He empties all of its contents and continues gagging, hot bile burning his eyes and his throat, his chest aching from where it presses into the cold porcelain. He wipes the back of a hand across his face and crawls away to lean against a wall.

Somewhere in his alcohol ridden conscious he deems it acceptable and necessary to text the bitch that's equally responsible for his misery. His phone is in his back pocket. Thankful he still has her number buried in his contacts, he types a message that makes no sense but is full of fuck you's so she'll get the picture loud and clear.

Then he sends four words, _I fucking hate you_ , and he feels so goddamn free, he's been aching to say those words for so long.

But somehow that isn't enough.

He sends that same message, over and over, almost like a game- how many can he send, how fast can he send them? It's fuck o'clock and he knows she won't be looking at her phone so he can send all he wants and not feel any retribution for now.

Then something stops him from pressing that send button one more time. He scrolls back up and sees that he sent the message at least fifty times. A gut-wrenching, sweat-forming panic comes over him, and he throws his phone so hard the fucking thing shatters, and when it does he fucking loses it. The tears come fast and uncontrollably, hot pricks against his cheeks. He hugs his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth, his breathing beginning to labor and within a few minutes he's sick to his stomach again. He gags a few times but there's nothing left in him. Not in his stomach, his head, his heart. Nothing.

If only Blake had seen the scars. Maybe then he'd start paying attention.

***

Goddammit. Now he's without a phone.

At least now Gwen won't be able to contact him. He got rid of his landline years ago.

He almost laughs. It's kind of funny, in a way.

Any sane person would try to tell him that there will be other people besides Blake, and if he were sane too he might believe them. But love is a funny thing, makes people feel ways they've never felt before and do things they'd never imagine themselves doing. It changes them. When Blake Shelton came into Adam's life six years ago he knew he would never be the same. And as time went on he knew he wanted to experience the world with Blake. He needed more of their long talks over meaningless things and their Oklahoma hunting trips. All the stupid stuff he thought he'd never do he found himself doing with Blake and loving every minute of it. And when Blake looked at him with that sly half smile, or gently touched his face, or wrapped his arms around his waist, he knew he was guaranteed a lifetime of love for the man because of that warm stupid way he felt and the way he just _knew_.

So fuck whoever the hell tries to tell him that he can still find love. He knows he can't because he's already found it.

And so has Gwen.

And so has Blake.

He doesn't know when they plan on leaving but he doesn't give two fucks to ask. He's sure Gwen or Blake one will come knocking at his door wondering what kind of shit show went down at his house the night he sent those texts but until then he'll keep to himself. It's much easier to shut everyone out then to try to explain why you're so fucked up.

He's a goddamn fucking wreck from all the alcohol that's still flowing through his broken veins. His brain might as well be trying to bust out the front of his skull, his stomach is twisting and pinching at his insides and sweat is seeping through the his back of white T-shirt. He can't remember the last time he's eaten a decent meal, and judging by how loose his jeans fit he's guessing it's been a while. He could kill himself now and just get it over with, save everyone the trouble, take away all of their problems. But some tiny glitter of hope glistens deep within his heart and soul, telling him that even though now Blake doesn't love him like he wishes to be loved, maybe in a future place and time they'll reconnect and start their lives together.

Who is he kidding? He's fucking screwed.

***

There it is. 10:02 A.M. One missed call and a voicemail from Blake. 

Surprise, surprise. Turns out his phone still works after the nasty impact. It's beat up as hell and everything's broken but it still fucking works. God forbid it dare let him miss a call from anyone. 

Adam regretfully dials Blake and immediately gets an earful of pissed off country drama. The words sting and he knows he deserves them. He wonders why Gwen didn't bother with it herself.

They hang up with Adam barely getting three words in, leaving him feeling emptier than ever. He really has nothing to live for now. 

His whole body just wants to sleep all day, so that's exactly what he does. He takes off his jeans and T-shirt that made him feel like a somewhat normal human being and slips into a sweatshirt and sweatpants. Both are oversized and perfect to curl up and get lost in as he falls asleep in his bed. The next time his eyes are open it's dark out. He's slept for almost eleven hours. But who the fuck cares? He sure as hell doesn't, and now it's clear that no one else does either.

The one person who once made him feel special now makes him feel like this.

He remembers something that the therapist said. He reaches for his laptop and opens a search tab. _Depression_. Millions of results flash before his eyes, all for one word. Symptoms include fatigue, insomnia, feelings of worthlessness, guilt and sadness, and suicidal thoughts.

Shit.

To an extent it isn't even about Blake anymore. It's about battling the demons in his own head. And slowly and surely, they're winning.

Adam rubs his hands over his tired achy face as he's done for the thousandth time. He takes a quick shower and as he steps out he hears the downstairs doorbell ring. He throws on the same sweatshirt and sweatpants and saunters down to answer it.

He barely gets the door open when Blake barges past him, nearly knocking his frail frame to the ground.

"A hello would haven been nice," Adam says.

Blake narrows his eyes at him. "You sober finally?"

"The fuck do you want?"

"I want to know why you've been sending threatening messages to my fiancé."

There it is, that oh so wonderful glorious word that Blake likes to use all the time now. It makes Adam physically sick to his stomach to hear it anymore.

"You know what Blake, just go." Adam waves an arm toward the door.

"I ain't leavin' until you give me a reason for all this insanity."

Great. Now he's insane. He kind of figured, anyway.

He's done. He's drained, broken, and so fucking done. He turns away from Blake and starts walking in the direction of the stairs, but Blake's hand is around his wrist before he can get far. Blake yanks him and spins him around, riding his shirt sleeve up, revealing a forearm full of scars. 

Blake's angry eyes go from Adam's face to his arm and soften immediately. He looks up and down Adam's forearm before releasing his grip. "Oh Adam, tell me you didn't." 

Adam quickly pushes the sleeve back down. "Do what, cut myself? Yeah, yeah Blake I did. And you know what? It felt fucking great."

Adam catches Blake's expression, a devastating mixture of fear, disbelief, and pity.

A chance is presenting itself here. If Adam knew better he'd take it because this is fucking fate. This is his chance to get help and no longer be swallowed into the deep dark depths of his mind and his imagination and his depression.

 _His depression_.

Too bad he doesn't believe in fate. He bolts for the stairs.

"Hey!" Blake calls to Adam's back. "You can't run away now. You need help and you know it. Even if it ain't from me, I'll call Jesse, James, whoever you want."

Adam pauses when he feels tears sting behind his eyes. "Just stop, right there."

Blake looks defeated when he says, "But I ain't finished yet."

And that's when Adam really sees Blake's eyes, sees them wet and shiny in the dim light. Blake Shelton is about to cry because of him, and he can't fucking take that.

"Yeah well, I am."

He disappears upstairs, slams the door to his bedroom, and waits quietly for several minutes to hear Blake leave.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. Here it is guys. Sorry for the loooong wait.

Blake sighs as he drops his keys in his jacket pocket and steps inside his home, where Gwen is seated at the kitchen table.

She uncrosses her legs and pushes blonde hair behind her ears. "How is he?"

Blake opens a cabinet and reaches for a glass and a bottle of wine. "Not good. He's a damn wreck." 

"I'm really worried about him," she says softly.

"Really, you're worried about him? After what he did to you?" He pours himself a glass and one for his fiancé. "I should'a beat the little shit's head in when I had the chance."

"Stop it," she says. "I don't care about that, and neither do you. Adam is our friend and he needs our help. Isn't there anything you could say to get through to him?" 

"You've seen how he's reacted the past few days. He completely ignores anything I try to do or say." Blake hands her the glass and she sets it on the table. He takes a sip of his own. 

"This isn't like Adam," is all she says. 

They both know that the cruel texts are just the start of it. And she's right, neither of them are even mad at that anymore.

"So what are you going to do?"

Blake shrugs. "Nothing, I guess. I've tried everything. He won't open up to me."

"All I know is Adam needs someone right now. We don't know exactly what he's going through and maybe we never will but he needs our support."

"If there's anything I know about Adam Levine it's that he's got a support system. He's got his band, he's got tons of friends..." He shakes his head. "I've tried, babe, you know I've tried." Blake remembers how bad Adam looked, the cuts on his arms. It makes him sick to his stomach that he can't help his friend in his time of need. But there's only so much a person can do for someone else without losing their own sanity. Maybe it's best if he just lets this one go. 

Gwen places a hand on his arm, and he looks into her soft eyes. "To us it may look like Adam has everything in the world. But right now he doesn't see it that way. He's pushing you away because you needs you, Blake. _You're_ the one he needs right now." 

Her last words hit him in a funny way, make his stomach tighten and his heart pick up its rhythm. And then he has a handle on the situation, things are put into perspective and he realizes something that he was too blind to notice all this time. 

"Please, tell me you'll talk to him again."

Blake nods. "I will. I'll stop by again in the morning."

"Do you think maybe you should go back tonight?" She lowers her voice. "You never know what he might do, all alone at night in the state he's in."

And it's true, and Blake should have thought of it first, he's the one who saw the red crusted scars and the empty broken bottles. 

There's that sick, churning feeling in the pit of his stomach again. 

_You never know what he might do_.

***

This could be it. This could be the end. This could be his death.

Adam lets his legs dangle over the armrest of the sofa. His body slides lazily over the cushions until he's hanging upside down, head nearly touching the floor. He can feel the blood rush in behind his eyes and his temples begin to throb. He used to hate the feeling. It doesn't even faze him anymore. He's felt much worse now anyway. 

He picks himself up and runs both hands through unkept hair. His eyelids sting and his cheeks are hot and his stomach hates his newfound alcoholism. Every bone, every muscle, every fiber of his being is trying to tell his mind that he's done. 

All he has to do now is let himself go. 

The sound of the doorbell rings in his ears and hurts his head. He doesn't care who it is or what they have to say. He's beyond fucking tired.

Then a large figure comes looming towards him. His eyes adjust to the light just in time to meet Blake square in the face and they lock eyes instantly.

"Adam," Blake whispers, and it's the only word he utters. He closes in and reaches his strong arms around Adam's weak hopeless body. He pulls Adam's chin up with a finger, tilts his head gently, and presses their lips together, soft at first, warm, tender, loving, sending a sensation through Adam's body that makes him feel like this is the first kiss he's ever received in his worthless life. He shuts his eyes and for a moment, he isn't dying. He isn't shattered, afraid, or angry. He's in arms that make him feel right at home, kissing lips so familiar it hurts. The storm clouds clear and the sun starts to shine. 

And now tears are streaming down his face. For the first time in months, he's _alive_.

Blake parts their lips gently, smoothly. He searches Adam's face until Adam tentatively meets his eyes. 

"Why are you crying?" Blake asks softly. 

Adam wipes at an eye and sniffs. "I don't know."

"You love me, don't you? You're in love with me."

For months, _years_ , all Adam has ever wanted was for Blake to know this. For Blake to love him back. For them to love each other with their whole hearts, unconditionally. The truth is one word away from leaving his lips yet somehow he can't face it.

He doesn't answer. He bites his lower lip to keep himself from crying out.

"Adam." Blake's voice is low and husky and as serious as Adam has ever heard it. "I love you man, but only as a friend. You need to know that. I'm marryin' Gwen."

As if the knife couldn't be shoved deeper into his back, Blake went ahead and twisted it around a few times for good measure, cut his heart right in two. The air isn't there for him to breathe, the words aren't there for him to speak. 

Adam reaches up and lays his fingers around Blake's neck and pulls him closer. Blake is rigid but doesn't resist. Adam sinks into Blake's chest and aligns their lips, breathing gently onto Blake's face. 

Then Adam drops his hand slowly and takes a step back. He stares at the floor. "Just go."

"Are you okay?" Blake asks. 

And the question doesn't upset Adam, as stupid as it is, because he knows Blake doesn't really mean it, doesn't really want to ask that question because he already knows the answer to it, but he can't blame the man because what else is there to say. 

Hot tears sting his eyes again, but his voice is calm and steady when he says, "Get the fuck out of my house."

And Blake doesn't hesitate, leaves as quietly as he came, but before he shuts the door he looks over his shoulder and smiles warmly at Adam. 

Is he happy that he kissed Adam? Is he happy that he's leaving? Is he happy that he's responsible for shattering a heart? No, Blake's not like that. He's not spiteful. But Adam's mind gets to run away with itself because he is not okay. And he has to keep telling himself that. He is not okay, and the one person on this goddamn planet with the power to make him okay again, is about to walk out his fucking door and probably never return. 

It's real now. Blake is gone. And Adam might as well be gone too.


End file.
